


A Stroke Of Luck (Or A Gift From God?)

by orphan_account



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: British Slang, Don't let that put you off, First Meeting, M/M, Phase One (Gorillaz), i didn't know whether 2d was supposed to know murdoc once he woke up so... i went crazy w/ that one, i don't...know how to tag this, i just describe what happened once 2d woke up from his coma man, murdoc/2d - Freeform, never wrote for this dynamic bear with me, or sort of...right before phase one i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 17:41:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19045240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Say, Faceache,” he says, and 2-D glares at him through the rearview mirror, “you don’t happen to sing, do you?”or, how 2-D's waking up from his coma went down.





	A Stroke Of Luck (Or A Gift From God?)

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know if this is considered phase one or..... right before phase one. just to clarify, i don't think this too short piece could be considered to contain romance..... there are mentions of murdoc finding 2-D attractive though. i fancy this dynamic as a romantic one, but like, in this particular phase... i'm pretty sure, and correct me if i'm wrong, that 2-D's like 19 and murdoc's 30 or something which... yeah. but anyway, if you read through this incredibly boring and unecessary note, thanks for checking this out and i hope you enjoy!
> 
> (ALSO i do NOT condone people calling women birds and if you do call women birds then piss right off lol. i do mention it in here 'cause i suppose this is how murdoc would talk so yeah...just a lil disclaimer, we all respect women here)

It seems that the moment he comes back down on planet Earth coincides with the moment that the comatose git’s limp body collides with the curb.

His previous high, the one brought onto him by speeding - skidding his car around a car park and performing a rather meticulous and impressive 360, if he said so himself - seemed to dissipate, like wasted energy. It was good while it lasted, he supposes, especially considering that he spent most of his drained life chasing highs like this nowadays, while almost never accomplishing it. His soul re-entered his body, his mind was no longer foggy, and he became acutely aware of the giant hole on his windshield. That, and the very much empty backseat.

“What…” he mumbled, and before he could even form a full sentence, his eyes zeroed down onto a bright azure buoy. The high-pitched shouts registered, a bunch of birds that had previously been applauding Murdoc’s sheer genius now had their hands clasped over their mouths and staring in pure shock. For a second, he feels immobilised (much like the rotten vegetable that went flying out the sodding windshield) but then, almost on instinct, he kicks the car door open and jumps out with a low grumble of annoyance.

The birds manage to glare his way before they scatter around, making to flee the scene before it escalates further. Man, it was truly good while it lasted. Superbly glorious.

What a bloody burden this tool turned out to be. Not knowing how to go about this, Murdoc leaned against the bonnet of his wrecked vehicle, always grumbling quietly to himself. Satan help him, that would be a great time to bum a fag - but that would be too insensitive, and he finished his pack a few hours earlier anyway.

A sudden movement catches the corner of his eye, and he pauses from where he observes the broken glass of the windshield. Murdoc remains unmoving, once again immobilised, because really: what could he do, even if he turned around? Maybe standing here, looking unsuspicious right next to a demolished car and black tire tracks all around the car park would allow him to distance himself and his involvement with the vegetablised git lying on the curb, next to a few (or a lot, depending on how you saw or wanted to see it) droplets of blood in the eyes of any passerby. The feeling that arose from the pit of his stomach told him that probably wasn’t a passerby, though.

Stiff, so very stiff, Murdoc turns his head around and narrows his gaze down onto the curled up lump of prat, which now appears to be hunched over and trying his best to use his own legs. Yeah, a fag would be just about perfect right now. It all is awfully reminiscent to some sort of film - a post-apocalyptic one at that, where the newly dug out sickly zombie slowly turns around and presents its shaggy face to the audience. Murdoc remains immobilised as the little berk stabilises himself on squirmy feet, and his breath all but hitches when he slowly turns around to face him. Truly brilliant - and Murdoc usually avoids being in awe of anything but his own brilliance.

In the space where eyeballs would normally be - still, not as brilliant as Murdoc’s own, real lady-magnets those are - the once vegetable attained two cavities, enchantingly black as coal and seemingly staring right through his soul, though he supposes he wouldn’t know, due to the lack of actual eyeballs and all. Still, he stares right back, and an unconscious smile makes its way onto his face as he registers the hidden potential of it all.

As the stunning little skiver attempts to fully turn around, Murdoc registers that this is the first time he truly observed him. Curious thing - the fact that he’d been forced to devote ten hours of his precious time each week on this little bugger and he has never paid attention to anything about him, but then again, he can’t for the life of him come up with one thing that could seem interesting about a human puppet with no strings. The pillock slowly turns around and finally faces him, and, my.

When did his legs get so long? With the distance, the bugger looked a good foot taller than himself, even as his legs trembled to support his weight. Skinny little bugger he was. Murdoc faintly thought he wouldn’t mind having him, in an alternate universe, where he wasn’t the reason why this very person has lost his bloody eyeballs. Still… it’s a nagging thought at the back of his brain.

With blood running down his nose and the soulless stare directed right at Murdoc, he looked absolutely enchanting. And so enters the rhetoric: who wouldn’t be interested in a 6’0’’ pretty boy with two black dents for eyeballs and legs for days, slim and lean, with hair a deep azure colour? At that moment it seems that Satan has smiled up upon him, and given him what he’s been in search of for the better half of the year: an attractive, appealing frontman to help him skyrocket into rock ‘n’ roll stardom.

“My, my…” Murdoc says, in a croaky, slimy voice. Insensitive, truly, but when has he ever been considerate? Plain unrealistic, that is, and so he starts moving towards the old bugger, who resembles a fallen angel in his unresponsive state. Bloody hell, could the muppet even see him? He waved his hand about, “Oi, Bluebird! Alright?”

The old bugger squeaked in response, his head looking heavy on his shoulders. Nothing came after that, but he did look around as if trying to recognise the place.

“Hey, Faceache!” he called, getting the git to face him again. Perhaps having learnt his name would have been useful right about now. “Can ya see me, then? You blind or summat?”

It’s then that the old git takes a shaky step forward, immediately grasping for his aching skull. He wipes his bloody nose, soaking his sleeve in the meantime. “I ain’t blind, just…” he calls back, and Murdoc’s eyebrows raise. The voice was a bit too shrill to match with the appearance - bugger, what if his singing voice was crap as well?  What a waste that would be. “It’s… ‘s blurry, that’s all…”

“Come on, then,” Murdoc hollered, slapping down onto his thighs as if he were calling a dog over. The kid didn’t question it, and - to Murdoc’s amusement - all but tripped over his own feet trying to take a step forward. What he wouldn’t give to see him smash his skull down onto the curb again. With a throaty chuckle, Murdoc says, “Alright, mate, come on now," and drapes the limp arm over his shoulders as he tries to speedwalk towards the remains of his car, which proves to be way more difficult than he’d imagined with a 6’0’’ tall git on his back. Huffing, he wraps an arm of his own around the lean bastard’s waist, grasping at his hipbone. Sharp and nice, it is. Maybe he should rethink trying it on with him when his face is not stained in blood and all, and he can support himself on his own legs. Faceache has buried his face into his shoulder as it seems, and as pretty as he is, Murdoc isn’t completely out of his mind yet. “Hey, uh… ya mind not soaking my shirt with your fucking bleeding and all? It’s sort of unhygienic.”

The old git lifts his head up to frown at him, but he barely has time before he’s being shoved into the backseat of Murdoc’s wreck of a car. He whines to himself, nursing his aching head, and glares at Murdoc once he’s seated at the front.

“Hey, who are you, anyway?” he squeaks out, wiping his cupid’s bow with a limp wrist. He notices more blood on his hand as Murdoc makes to start up the engine. “Oh, bugger…” he murmurs to himself, flinching as the car starts to speed off. “Wait, where are we going? Aw, my head kills…”

“That’s because you have two dents for eyes, mate,” Murdoc snickers, glancing at the suffering berk on his backseat. “Hey… 2-Dents. That’s a cool name for you, isn’t it? Or, ah…”  he slowed down, though that didn’t seem to help Faceache with his headache at all. “What’s a cool pseudonym for you, then?”

“A pseudonym… What?” the bugger groans, wiping his bloody hands on the rough seats. “What are you on about? Who are you, anyway? Where are we going?”

“Zip it, I’m trying to think… Bloody shrill voice you have,” Murdoc grumbles. With a final glance through the rearview mirror, he sighs, “2-Dents it is, then. 2-D. Ah, yes, that definitely works, Bluebird.”

“I think I’m ready to go home now,” 2-D squirms around on his seat, with heavy eyelids. He starts kicking the back of Murdoc’s seat, dizzy, “Hey! Pull over, you old geezer!”

“Quiet, back there!” Murdoc barks, his narrowed eyes being the only thing visible on the rearview mirror. He briefly registers Faceache's eyelids turning heavy and he says, “Don't go getting a concussion on me now. That’s no way to treat the handsome bastard who has been looking after you for a year, now, is it? Treat ‘em during their coma and this is what you get…”

“What are you even on about? Hey, let me out!” 2-D starts pummeling the back of his seat again, his whining too shrill for anyone to handle, Murdoc thinks.

“Stay still, you little shit, before I make you!”

Silence, finally. Murdoc grits his teeth together, as a way to let off some steam, before he starts pummeling the pretty bugger in the back down. 2-D has gone back to obsessing over the blood oozing out of his nose, it seems, and Murdoc lets out one of these slimy laughs of his.

“Say, Faceache,” he says, and 2-D glares at him through the rearview mirror, “you don’t happen to sing, do you?”

**Author's Note:**

> this was too short and terrible but thanks for checking this out! let me know if that's alright, 'cause i might do more with this dynamic.


End file.
